It was the last week of June in 1977. For a twelve-year-old boy living on Limekiln Lake, it meant no more school! It also meant no more bugs. But best of all, it meant splashing boats of all shapes and sizes into the waiting waters of the lake.
These boats had begun passing by our house, cars towing them on trailers.
Every one of these crafts was destined for a boathouse, dock, or mooring buoy.
I took many morning and afternoon walks along the beach. I greeted each boat’s arrival with enthusiasm, probably as much as the owners who were bringing the lake back to life.
Scuffing through the dark wet sand at the shore’s edge I stopped at each.
I studied the ski boats and the old aluminum skiffs.
Mostly I enjoyed all the old wooden row boats.
I was fascinated by the swelling of the boats that, when first launched, wallowed along the shore. They were bailed with a bucket till they rode high, ready for travel.
Some of these old rowboats were painted, some varnished, others canvas-covered.
Their oars with oarlocks of unpolished brass rested inside, just waiting for someone to row them.
I had rendered a great many of these in my sketchbooks over the years, but none as intriguing as an old boat that sat at the Collier Gloo camp.
It seemed like it was in no way seaworthy. In fact it looked clumsy.
Pulled up to shore, this craft was short with wide planking and spoke of nothing fancy.
The blue it had been painted was hardly masculine; rather it was soft, a please-do-not-look-at-me shade.
I imagined this boat along some old cove, left by pirates as they wandered from shore to bury their treasure.
I could almost see them in their tall black boots; swords and pistols in hand as they returned to the beach.
For the most part, these boats just sat all summer, waiting for someone to take them for a row; warmed and cooled by the sun, rain and wind.
I had a whole summer ahead of me to try out the many boats along the shore.
I had no trouble asking permission to take one for a row.
The conversation usually went like this. “I see you got a rowboat tied there; looks pretty sea worthy… how does it row?”
Soon I was pulling back on the oars in Limekiln Lake.
Mitch Lee, Adirondack native & storyteller, lives at Inlet. ltmitch3rdny@aol.com